


been a long year

by ssilverarrowss



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 2020 Season, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29356878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/pseuds/ssilverarrowss
Summary: The days stubbornly march forward. Sometimes it feels agonisingly slow, and sometimes it feels like everything is moving too quickly, like Charles is going to blink and all the time he’s spent with Sebastian will be in the rearview, gone forever.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Comments: 11
Kudos: 76
Collections: F1 Soup Kitchen Chocolate Box 2021





	been a long year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [partywitharichzombie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partywitharichzombie/gifts).



> Prompt: Dealing with the other's shock retirement or being booted from the team/losing his seat.
> 
> Fir, dearest! As you know, I've been meaning to write a season-review style fic for a while now, but never got around to it. And then I saw your prompt and, well - I had to. I'm not sure this is the fic you wanted, exactly, but I hope you will enjoy it regardless. Thank you for everything. <3

**Austria**

They’ve been here before. 

Charles suddenly feels Brazil, the entire fucking country, looming up over them, like maybe they’re back in Binotto’s office, snarling at each other over what had broken between them—resentments buried but not forgotten, now threatening to resurface. 

“I am so sorry, Seb. I fucked up.” It’s an inordinately inadequate thing to say. _Sorry_ won’t piece together a broken rear wing or undo a humiliating double DNF. “This isn’t how I—”

“Wanted to start the season?” Sebastian cuts in. “No. Me neither.”

Charles’s stomach drops. 

“I really am sorry. It was a mistake. I won’t—It won’t happen again. I’ll be better.”

Sebastian’s mouth twists. He looks like he probably has other words for it.

“I know,” he sighs, deep and long-suffering, like he knows he could press the issue but figures unproductive vitriol isn’t worth the effort. “I know you are.” 

“This is not what I wanted.” It’s impossible to tell whether he means the on-track incident, or the part he inadvertently played in Sebastian’s dismissal from the team. Both. All of it.

Sebastian shakes his head. They’re competitors and they’re both going to make it as hard as they can for each other. It doesn’t matter what else they are. He doesn’t understand why Charles feels the need to bring it up, like it changes anything or makes any of it worth discussing.

“What’s done is done,” he says, not unkindly. “Let’s try to make the best of what’s left of it.” 

Charles looks at him for a long moment. No more bravado, just someone who cares too much.

* * *

Silverstone, Barcelona, Spa. Third, DNF, fourteenth.

The days stubbornly march forward. Sometimes it feels agonisingly slow, and sometimes it feels like everything is moving too quickly, like Charles is going to blink and all the time he’s spent with Sebastian will be in the rearview, gone forever.

* * *

**Italy**

There’s not much left for Sebastian to do after his race-ending brake failure, spectacular in a way only Ferrari can be. He climbs out of the car, dutifully reports back to his mechanics, the engineers at the pit wall and, of course, his team principal. To his credit, Binotto doesn’t say much, mashing his lips into a thin line and giving Sebastian a curt nod before returning to his designated seat to monitor the sister car still out on track.

They’re not done here, he knows—the issue is bound to get dredged up again in the post-race debrief—but for now he’s content to walk away and lick his wounds. Sebastian spares one last glance at the pit wall before retreating back to the paddock.

He gives the Sky crew a soundbite when they approach him, briefly explaining what happened, the way the car gave out before he even had a chance to push it to its limits, the way he was powerless to stop it from demolishing the polystyrene blocks in its path.

“Sometimes, you know, you don’t get to choose, and you have to deal with what you have and at the moment that’s what it is. We have to keep our head up even if it’s difficult.” It comes out sharper than intended, his attempt at feigning enthusiasm sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

Mercifully, Sebastian’s misfortune is overshadowed by the drama of the ongoing race and the journalists soon lose interest in him, meaning he’s free to spend the remainder of the race in his driver’s room.

Sebastian’s shoulders slump in relief as soon as the door slips shut behind him. He stays like that for a moment, eyes screwed shut against the outside world. There’s no silence to be found here—the roar of the cars out on track is still audible, muffled and distorted but unmistakable, even from a distance. He figures this is the closest thing to respite.

When Sebastian finally opens his eyes, his vision is blurry around the edges. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the onset of a bone-deep fatigue, and turns on the air con to banish the sweltering afternoon heat. It drones softly in the background as he sheds the blood-red suit, its cleanliness a painful reminder of the brevity of his race. He throws it over the back of the chair without much care, pulling on a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

Unsure of what else to do, Sebastian starts packing, transferring his neatly folded team polos into his suitcase where it sits wide open, pressed up against the wall. He works at a slow, almost leisurely pace, indescribably glad for the simple pleasure of completing a task, no matter how menial. It keeps him occupied until it doesn’t, until he’s sealing up all the remnants of a nightmarish weekend, back at square one.

He sinks down onto the sofa, the cool air making his bare arms prickle. For a moment he flirts with the idea of sitting here like this for the duration of the race, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyelids until he sees violent bursts of white. It’s an awfully self-pitying thought, ugly and shameful, and he quickly dismisses it, reaching for the remote to turn on the TV, more out of a desire for a distraction than any real interest. With the volume turned down, he can hear the quiet growl of the cars on the screen being echoed by the real thing—the effect is somewhat surreal but not entirely unpleasant.

He tries not to think about what it would feel like to still be out there with the rest of them, the relentless Italian sun beating down on his helmet as he guides the car through all the intricate bends and curves, the solid weight of the steering wheel beneath his hands keeping him grounded.

Maybe if he’d been out on track, as he should be, he wouldn’t be watching on as a streak of red shoots out of Parabolica and sails into the tyre barrier with the force of a meteorite slicing through the atmosphere.

The phantom force of the impact hits him squarely in the chest, punching all the air out of his lungs. His mouth goes dry.

There it is, he thinks. There’s that singular moment where the whole world stops, every second stretching to an infinity in between.

Sebastian watches, dazed, as Charles tentatively climbs out of the mangled car. His relief comes out in one audible breath of air. And yet the uneasy tightness in his chest stubbornly refuses to dissipate.

After replaying the footage of the crash several times, from several different angles, the commentators move on. The television drones on in the background but Sebastian’s no longer paying attention, unable to focus on anything other than the deafening rush of blood in his ears.

He doesn’t tell his legs to move but they do, and he lets them carry him until he finds himself outside, with the solid wall of the motorhome pressing against his back and sunlight warming his face. He alternates between staring up at the blue of the sky and then down at the concrete beneath his feet—anything to refrain from closing his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about what he’ll see if he does.

“Seb.”

He glances up to find Charles watching him. The top half of his race suit is unzipped, tugged down and sitting on his hips, exposing the milky-white of his fireproofs. His face seems paler than usual, and his eyes are just a fraction too wide. He looks as unsteady as Sebastian feels.

“You saw.”

“Yes.” A pause. “That was quick. They released you from the medical centre already?”

Charles grimaces. “I’m okay. Really.”

Sebastian isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t press. Charles offers no further explanation as he climbs the steps and disappears into the motorhome. Sebastian follows him inside.

The doors of their respective driver’s rooms are thrown wide open. This isn’t usually the case—but then, how often do they both retire less than halfway through the race? All the mechanics and engineers are down at the garage, no doubt trying to piece together whatever is left of their crippled cars before they pack everything up and head for the next town. That leaves them with something close to silence, the blissful absence of all unnecessary noise.

Sebastian gives Charles all the space he needs, stepping into his own room. This time he does switch off the television, but not before glancing at the lap counter in the corner of the screen. Time, in their line of work, is measured in different ways—by counting the spaces between heartbeats, the seconds between sectors, or how long it takes for the ink to dry on a crisp sheet of paper.

Sebastian’s eyes stray to the other side of the narrow hallway as he sits on the edge of the couch. In the quiet of his own room, Charles toes off his racing boots, then unceremoniously tosses his cap onto the desk. His watch follows, carefully slipped off and placed beside the snapback. He pushes a hand through his hair the way he always does after a bad race, heaving a shuddering sigh. Sebastian’s neck flushes. He looks away.

Charles disappears into the en-suite. The sound of the faucet running cuts through the silence. When he emerges, Sebastian’s half-expecting him to flop down onto the sofa, pull out his phone and mindlessly start scrolling without another word. Instead, he wanders closer, lingering in the doorway to Sebastian’s room—just idling there, like he’s waiting for permission.

Sebastian meets his gaze.

“Come here,” he says. Charles goes easily, without hesitation, shutting the door behind him.

The sofa dips beneath the weight of an additional body. Charles’s hands are folded in his lap. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then doesn’t. Sebastian speaks first.

“Your hands are shaking.”

Charles startles at the observation, curling his fingers so they press into the soft inside of his palms.

“I’m fine.” A tiny dip appears between his brows, indicating that he’s trying to find the right words, translating something in his head. “It will pass.”

“It was a big crash,” Sebastian says, in a tone he hopes is soothing. “It’s okay to be rattled.”

Something dark and unfathomable flits across Charles’s features. His shoulders go tense.

“I was fourth,” he grits out. “We pitted early. I had a fresh set of tyres. I could have—” He stops. Could’ve what? Gotten on the podium?

Charles’s eyes flutter shut. A red-white-green blur dances behind his eyelids, the hammering of his pulse matching the feverish roar of the nonexistent crowd as they chant his name with something akin to reverence.

He wouldn’t have had any of that this year, he knows, but a podium is still a podium, and Monza is still Monza, regardless of the circumstances.

“Come on.” Sebastian reaches out, lets his hand close over Charles’s. “The car is imbalanced, it’s a nightmare to drive. That’s not your fault.”

“At least you had a brake failure.”

Sebastian winces, but doesn’t draw his hand back.

Charles looks stricken. Guilty. His whole face goes hot, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Sebastian says, slowly. “I know.”

It hurts to hear it, to be reminded so bluntly, but he thinks he understands. Driver error is always much harder to swallow, all that anger directed inward. Sebastian sees it now, in the way Charles’s breath rattles in his throat as he exhales unevenly. He looks so vulnerable like this—lips parted around a trembling breath, pale face lined with faint balaclava imprints. 

Without thinking, Sebastian moves his hand up to cradle Charles’s cheek. His eyes briefly flutter shut as he leans into Sebastian’s warm touch, his own fingers reaching to curl around his wrist, keeping him there. 

For a moment they just look at each other without saying anything, and then Charles leans forward and kisses him. It’s soft and yet somehow oddly intense in a way that only he manages to be. Sebastian kisses back without hesitation. 

Together, they—somewhat gracelessly—peel off the bottom part of Charles’s race suit and fireproofs. 

“You might want to lie down.”

“That is probably a good idea,” Charles agrees, just a little bit breathless.

Sebastian moves back, allowing him to maneuver himself into a more comfortable position. He doesn’t miss the way he winces as he does so, the crease that momentarily appears between his brows, then smooths out.

Charles reaches for him, tugs him down until he’s braced above him, pulled in for another kiss. Sebastian’s fingers curl into the hem of his fireproofs. 

“Don’t,” Charles chokes out. He looks uncharacteristically self-conscious, the apples of his cheeks dusted pink. 

Leaning closer, Sebastian can just about make out the beginnings of a bruise forming, pale skin stained purple beneath the thin material. 

“Does it hurt?” He can’t keep his eyes off the evidence of the crash.

Charles bites his lip. “A little.” 

Sebastian nods, then bows his head and, very deliberately, presses a kiss against Charles’s tender, discoloured skin, mouth hot and open over the thin material of the fireproofs. And again. 

Charles’s shaky exhale feels strangely loud in the silence. 

“Go slow,” he murmurs. “Please.”

His eyes flutter shut when Sebastian gets inside him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He kisses Charles wherever he can reach—his forehead, the high points of his cheeks, the corner of his lips, the hollow of his throat. 

The dizzying frenzy of vying for wins feels like a distant memory. Instead there is this—the quiet comfort of shared disappointments.

* * *

**Tuscany**

The celebrations in Piazza della Signoria feel excessive and more than a little ironic, considering their woeful form this season. Still, Charles obediently poses for commemorative photographs, flashing dazzling smiles when necessary. 

His gaze lands on Sebastian, just barely visible through the crowd of attendees. He’s deep in conversation with someone, mouth opening prettily to form sentences, hands moving freely for emphasis. 

Something warm stirs in Charles’s chest. He looks away. 

Somewhere in the middle of the third act it occurs to him that this might be the last time they do this together—dress up in their matching suits, prancing horse emblazoned proudly over their hearts, and present themselves to the world as Ferrari drivers. 

The thought makes him want to do desperate, terrible things, like get Sebastian alone somewhere no one can see them and press himself so deep inside of him that he leaves a part of himself there. His mouth goes dry.

They haven’t had enough time.

* * *

**Germany**

The landscape around the track is awash in depressing shades of grey, dense fog smeared across the sky where the horizon should be. It’s everything Charles despises, the relentless rain accompanied by a strong, biting wind that seems to seep through all the layers he has on—fireproofs, race suit and his team jacket, zipped all the way up to his chin. The atmosphere in the paddock is strange at best, anticipation laced with disgruntlement making everything feel oddly claustrophobic as they wait around for something that isn’t going to transpire.

Knowing the team won’t be needing him between non-existent practice sessions, Charles slinks back into his driver’s room and turns the heating way up before slumping dejectedly on the sofa. He rubs his hands together to chase away the numbness in his chill-reddened fingers, then reaches for an empty envelope—every Thursday Silvia presents them both with a stack of fanmail—and a Sharpie to entertain himself.

Toeing off his shoes, Charles shifts into a more comfortable sitting position, and flips the envelope to the clean side on the back. The marker is nowhere near as elegant or precise as a pencil or pen would be, producing thick, awkward lines, but after a few minutes of seemingly mindless doodling, the sketch slowly starts taking shape.

“There you are.”

Charles startles at the sound of Sebastian’s voice. When he glances up, he finds Sebastian hovering by the open door. If he knocked, Charles missed it completely.

“Seb.” He sits up a little. “Come in.”

Emboldened by the invitation, Sebastian draws closer, joining Charles on the sofa. It’s only now that Charles notices he’s holding a disposable cup. 

“Doesn’t look like we’ll be going out there anytime soon.”

“No,” Charles agrees, “probably not today.” 

“Honestly,” Sebastian says, glancing over at the portable unit on the floor, currently blasting heat. There’s a hint of amusement in this tone. “You’re being dramatic. It’s not that bad.”

Charles shoots him a pointed look. “It’s twenty degrees in Monaco right now. Sunny.” He waves his phone around as proof. “I checked.”

Sebastian’s lips quirk upwards at that. _We’re not in Monaco anymore, Charles_ , he wants to say, but stops himself. He has a feeling the reference will go over Charles’s head.

Instead, he asks, “What are you working on?”

Charles hastily shoves the piece of paper he’d been scribbling on into his black notebook. “Nothing important.”

Sebastian shrugs, evidently deciding that it’s none of his business. He holds out the cup he’s been holding, proffering it to Charles. 

“You weren’t in the garage. Xavi said I’ll probably find you here.” Their fingers brush as Charles takes the hot drink from Sebastian, immediately wrapping his hands around it to warm them.

“I wasn’t sure how you like your tea,” Sebastian admits. “I can get you some sugar if you—” 

“No.” Charles shakes his head. “No, this is perfect. Thank you.”

Sebastian looks at him for a moment, then cracks a smile. “You’re welcome.”

Neither of them speaks for a while, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Charles presses his fingers harder against the sides of the cup, then loosens his grip. The heater thrums steadily in the background. 

“Are you playing host?” Charles asks between sips. He feels significantly less miserable now, tension melting from his shoulders. 

Sebastian huffs out a laugh. “I guess. Home race and the weekend starts like this. I thought the guys in the garage could use some cheering up.” 

Just like that, Charles’s heart feels like it’s being squeezed.

This is one of those things that makes him think Sebastian’s departure will be an immeasurable loss. Not just for him, on a personal level, but for the team as a whole. Charles can try to emulate him going forward, mimic his demeanour and attitude, but it will be nothing more than a cheap imitation of someone wholly irreplaceable.

* * *

**Turkey**

Sebastian gets held up at the track after the race, mainly due to the extra attention lavished on him as a podium finisher. There’s a flurry of activity around all three of them, with photographers, team members and pundits milling about; there are interviews to give, press conferences to attend, PR videos to shoot.

The confetti is a nice touch, he supposes, and he can’t deny how sleek the trophy is, how comfortably it sits in his grasp, the weight of it solid and heartening. It gives him a pleasurable buzz—knowing that this season, when he looks back on it, won’t be a complete write-off in terms of results.

Sebastian doesn’t see Charles at any point after the race. He tries not to let that bother him.

*

It’s getting dark by the time their car pulls up at the hotel. Outside, the sky looks like a bruise, greyish-blue and hazy, the clouds dark and heavy with the promise of rain. It makes the light pouring out of the lavish entrance seem even brighter.

Sebastian notices Silvia before she notices him, standing off to the side, deep in conversation with Laurent and some of the engineers. Her mahogany hair stands out against the muted marble and glass of the lobby.

He notices her first, but she’s the one who approaches him.

“Sebastian,” she beams, stepping closer to pull him into a brief, one-armed hug. “Well done.”

He lets her press a bottle of Moët & Chandon into his hands. “From the team,” she says. “You deserve it.”

Sebastian murmurs his thanks. He could stop there, and he probably should. Still, he can’t resist the compulsion to ask, “Is he—”

“In his room.”

He hesitates. Silvia throws him a knowing look, like this is just one of those things she instinctively understands. It’s part of the reason he likes her so much. “Go ahead. He won’t want to be around anyone else right now.”

*

Charles’s room is three doors down from his own. Sebastian knocks twice, softly, with his free hand, the other still clutching the bottle he’d been gifted. He left the trophy with Britta, but took the champagne up with him on impulse. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Suddenly he’s not so sure that it is.

The door swings open before the doubt can dissuade him, before he can turn on his heel and walk the short distance back to his own suite, crawl into bed and pretend none of this ever happened. But he’s here, and the door’s open, and Charles is looking at him in a way that lets him know there’s no going back now.

He thinks he catches a look of relief as it flickers across Charles’s face, tired and shy, but then it’s gone, and he wonders if maybe he imagined it. Wordlessly, Charles steps out of the way to let him in, easing the door shut behind him.

Sebastian wanders deeper into the room, glancing around. The artwork hanging on the wall is different, and the bedsheets are a slightly paler shade of blue, but other than that, the suite looks almost identical to Sebastian’s own.

Charles sits down on the edge of the bed, wringing his hands. He’s changed out of his team t-shirt, opting for a grey hoodie instead. It’s loose enough that it seems to swallow him up. Maybe that’s the point.

He doesn’t miss the way Charles eyes the bottle of champagne as he sets it on the delicate-looking end table. He stares for a while but doesn’t comment on it, and Sebastian doesn’t say anything about it either.

“How are you feeling?”

Charles catches his gaze. Even now, hesitant as he may be, Sebastian looks happy, satisfied and energised in a way he hasn’t seen him in a long time. He can’t begrudge him that. He couldn’t.

He musters up a smile, though he still looks on the edge of throwing up. “Better now that you’re here.”

The thing is he means it, even if his voice sounds flat and hoarse, making his words sound significantly more unconvincing than they would be otherwise. Still, it earns him a small smile, so at least there’s that.

“You drove well today,” Sebastian says.

Charles’s eyes flutter shut, like he doesn’t want to hear it, or maybe he can’t bear to. It’s almost unfair how beguiling he looks, even as his face contorts in a grimace.

Sebastian doesn’t press. His eyes flicker over to the bathroom. The light is on, the door left ajar. Charles follows his line of sight.

“I was going to take a shower.”

Sebastian looks at him then, taking in the tightness in his muscles, the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders knit together to fold in on himself. He thinks his eyes look red-rimmed, but that could just be a trick of the light.

“I can run you a bath,” Sebastian offers. “If you want.”

Charles bites his lip. He thinks of the way the cold dampness of the track seems to have seeped into his bones, the way it feels like he’s somehow brought it back here with him.

“Okay.”

Their eyes meet. “Okay,” he echoes.

There’s something arresting about the way Sebastian rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, pushing them all the way up to his elbows as he sets to work on his self-appointed task. His arms are long and lean, pale skin glowing golden under the bathroom lights. He looks so intense like this, determination etched into every line of him. And this—

This is one of the many things Charles adores about Sebastian: his quiet, endearing tenacity and the way he cares for the things he loves.

He looks and looks and looks until it all becomes too much and his breath gets caught somewhere in his throat.

Time passes. It could’ve been seconds, it could’ve been minutes, but eventually the water shuts off.

Somewhere in the middle of all this Charles musters up the strength to glance back up, finding Sebastian leaning over the edge of the tub. The bathwater teases at the hem of his rolled up sleeve before he draws his hand back, catching Charles’s gaze as he straightens up. “All yours.”

Charles nods, pulling his hoodie over his head and exposing all the moles scattered liberally across the smooth plane of his upper body, delicate like stars in the night sky.

“I’ll be here,” Sebastian answers the unspoken question. Charles’s shoulders loosen a little. He holds Sebastian’s gaze for a moment longer before disappearing into the bathroom.

Sebastian finds him there some time later, sitting in the bath with his knees drawn up to his chest, chin resting on his folded arm, warmth and fragrance unfolding all around him. He’s got a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s thinking very hard—or trying very hard not to think.

Wordlessly, Sebastian sits down by the tub, setting the champagne bottle he’d brought with him on the floor beside him. The windows are tall and wide, offering a beautiful view of the city sprawled before him—the now-illuminated Bosphorus bridge shines bright in the darkness, clearly visible even through the dense cover of clouds.

When Sebastian finally tears his eyes away, he finds Charles watching him. His skin is dew-damp, cheeks flushed from the heat.

“Hey,” Sebastian murmurs. Leaning down, he tentatively kisses a line to Charles’s shoulder, then pushes his lips into the crook of his neck.

“Hey,” Charles breathes out. There’s a pause, and then he says, “I never congratulated you. I should have started with that.” A dimple emerges, the hint of a smile. “You were amazing, Seb.”

“It’s okay. I heard your team radio.”

Charles’s smile dims at the reminder. Sebastian pulls back.

Ignoring the pang in his chest, he says, “So were you. Don’t let that last lap overshadow everything else. You drove so well today.”

“You said that already.”

“I’m saying it again.” Sebastian’s hand drifts to Charles’s face, fingers skimming along the curve of his cheekbone. “You deserve to hear it again.”

“You have—” Charles reaches out to touch Sebastian’s neck. “Here.”

The silver star-shaped confetti slides off his skin with ease, pressed into the pad of Charles’s finger. He inspects it for a moment. Something heavy settles in the pit of his stomach, and it takes him back to the track, back to that final lap. He breathes out shakily, feeling sick and weak and ugly all over again. The confetti flutters uselessly to the floor.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Sebastian says, leaning over to grab the bottle he’d set aside earlier, “you really didn’t miss much. The champagne wasn’t even real champagne.”

“It looks real.”

“Oh, this one’s from the team.” He smiles. “The team that you are an integral part of. Even on days like this.”

Sebastian lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a drink, savouring the sharp tang and pleasant fizz, then proffers it to Charles.

He shakes his head. “It’s yours, Seb. I don’t deserve—”

“Humour me?”

Their fingers brush as Sebastian passes Charles the champagne. He takes in the solid weight of it, hears the liquid sloshing around the bottle. Finally he takes a swig, long and hefty. The sting of the bubbles feels both familiar and incredibly foreign—unearned.

Sebastian traces the shape of Charles’s mouth with his thumb. It comes away damp. “There.”

Charles hands the bottle back to its rightful owner, watches as Sebastian sets it back down.

“You’re still thinking about it.”

“I’m stupid,” Charles says, to no one in particular. There’s no real heat behind the words, making them feel almost rote.

Idly, Sebastian wonders if Charles actually believes what he’s saying, or if this is just his preferred method of self-flagellation. Then he realises that there’s no right answer, that no explanation could ever make this scathing self-assessment feel justified.

“If you spent less of your time beating yourself up,” Sebastian says, not unkindly, “you’d have less reason to beat yourself up.”

“This is probably true.” Charles flashes him a smile, wry but disarming as ever.

“You’ll be up there again. You have so many more podiums to come. So many more wins. You know that.”

“But it won’t be the same,” Charles protests. Quieter, like he’s imparting a precious secret, he adds, “It won’t be in red.”

He shakes his head vehemently, strands of still-wet hair falling into his eyes. Sebastian gently sweeps them back with his hand, letting it curve around the nape of his neck as he presses his forehead to Charles’s.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, as softly as he can manage. “I’m proud of us. I know this season hasn’t been the easiest—”

Charles cuts him off with a kiss; there’s a hint of urgency in the way he tilts his head to deepen it. His fingers catch on the open collar of Sebastian’s shirt, pulling him closer.

*

Charles stares out into the darkness, past the droplets of rain clinging to the window. Airport lights blink back at him as the jet taxis down the runway, set to fly the short distance from Zürich to Nice. 

He screws his eyes shut for a moment, like he’s willing himself to sleep. Beneath him, the plane begins its steady ascent, the pressure momentarily pressing him back against his seat. 

A frustrated sigh pushes past Charles’s lips as he eventually opens his eyes. He’s too wired to sleep, restless in a way no amount of self-imposed meditation can fix. On a whim, he reaches inside the pocket of his jacket and fishes out the envelope he’d used as a makeshift canvas all those weeks ago. He smooths out the creases as carefully as he can manage, then powers up his iPad. 

A quick Google search brings up a multitude of images—ones from last year mostly, but not exclusively. Something blooms in his chest, bright and warm, as he scrolls through the search results. Image after image flashes past on the screen, each attached to a memory of some kind. And then there’s—

The crazy thing is he can still feel it with startling clarity; the phantom caress of a gloved hand and the warmth that had spread through him like wildfire, momentarily overpowering everything else. 

He snaps a photo of his sketch, then opens it in Illustrator to tweak the design. The stylus affords him more creative freedom than the marker he’d originally used; he cleans up some of the lines, adds splashes of red, and—after careful consideration—finally settles on a font pairing. Once he’s satisfied with the result, he types out an email to Adrien, adding the necessary attachments and providing a short note.

That night he sleeps more soundly than he had in days. 

* * *

**Bahrain**

There’s a distinct difference between acceptable behavior on and off the track. Sebastian is experienced enough to know this. Racing gets blood boiling, but out of the car, once the helmet is off, there should be room for respectful communication.

Logically, Sebastian knows this.

So really, there’s no explanation for the anger and frustration that bubbles up inside of him, sharper and hotter than he’s felt in a long time. And there’s certainly no explanation for the way he corners Charles in the hallway of the Ferrari motorhome, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into the nearest vacant room. Charles gives an indignant grunt, but makes no real effort to resist.

As soon as they’re inside, the door easing shut behind them, Sebastian drops his hand and swipes a knuckle across his lips. Even in the relative darkness he can make out the shapes of paintings hanging on the walls—reminders of Ferrari’s bygone greatness, hung up to boost morale—a desk by the opposite wall, and the long, jagged leaves of that awful plastic plant the team insists on placing in the corner of every single room as décor.

The orange glow from the floodlights around the track outlines Charles’s face in tangerine, highlights the sharp line of his jaw, the sweat dotting his brow, the familiar gleam of his eyes.

“What is this about, Sebastian?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know. Like this could be about anything else.

“I thought we were past this, Charles.” It’s impossible to miss the sharp note of annoyance that bleeds into Sebastian’s tone. None of his former teammates could ever quite match Charles’s penchant for making his temper flare. “We discussed it this morning. How many times do you have to be told—”

Charles looks affronted by the accusation, like he never saw it coming, which is arrogant in a way that only he manages to be. At his worst, he expects everyone to understand him and fall into place accordingly.

“I was racing,” he says. “You probably forgot what that is like.”

Sebastian feels his neck heat at Charles’s show of unrepentant disregard. He forces his way into Charles’s space with a vengeance, fisting his hands in his team polo and driving him back into the nearest wall. It’s a flimsy, temporary construction and it shudders uneasily at the impact.

Charles’s breath hitches, more out of surprise than anything else. Sebastian feels a stab of satisfaction at the sound.

“We could’ve crashed,” he says. “It was careless and inconsiderate. It was stupid.”

“We didn’t.”

“Yes, only because I—”

Charles’s lip curls up at the corner. Sebastian can’t quite tell whether it’s a sneer or a smirk or something in between. He gets a hand under Charles’s shirt and presses insistent fingertips into the hot, smooth plane of his torso.

“You can be so selfish sometimes, you know that?” Sebastian breathes out through his teeth, tension in every line of his body. “Like nothing else matters. Only you, getting what you want.”

On impulse, he curls a hand around Charles’s neck, slotting his thumb into the pit of his throat.

Charles blinks at him, slow, like maybe he acknowledges that that’s the kind of person he is, that he’s self-centered and wants too much, too hard, too fast. But it’s fleeting, and suddenly his neutral expression is shifting into a decidedly haughty one.

“Funny. That’s not what Carlos said.”

“That’s his problem. You’re his problem now.”

“Not yet,” Charles points out. He reaches up, trailing his fingers along the delicate inside of Sebastian’s wrist and then moves higher, letting his hand rest against Sebastian’s where he’s got it wrapped around his throat. “I’m still yours.”

Sebastian can feel the hot veins throbbing beneath his fingers, anger and desperation represented in equal measure; the pressure of Charles’s hand on his, silently urging him to press down harder.

There it is again—that low simmering electricity between them that makes him feel like he’s crawling out of his skin sometimes.

“We could’ve crashed,” Sebastian repeats, like maybe if he says it enough he’ll be able to wrestle back some control. He leans down to mouth at Charles’s exposed collarbone, then bites down just enough to hear him gasp. “Maybe we should have. I could have taken something from you for once.”

He pulls back, watching as Charles’s brow creases in a brief flash of irritation. Then it smooths out again, very carefully.

“Yes. Maybe we should have.” His eyes rake over Sebastian’s face and then, very deliberately, flick down to his lips. “It would have been something for me to remember you by.”

Still riding on furious adrenaline, he leans in, crushing his lips to Charles’s in a kiss that’s half teeth and all hunger. Charles makes this noise, low, in the back of his throat, and heat starts to pool in the pit of Sebastian’s stomach.

When he reaches between them, he finds Charles hard and wanting already, the press of Sebastian’s palm against the tight denim making him inhale sharply.

Sebastian can feel the warmth radiating from Charles’s body, the heat of his hand sliding up his back, tracing the ridge of his spine, and coming to rest at the nape of his neck.

“Seb—”

“Don’t. Don’t say anything,” Sebastian orders, pushing his thumb into the soft hollow under Charles’s jaw. He dips his other hand past the waistband of Charles’s boxers and wraps his fingers around him, working him in a way that’s startlingly familiar. His ministrations earn him a contented moan.

“Quiet,” Sebastian murmurs, dropping the hand he’d wrapped around Charles’s throat and hastily clamping it over his mouth. Light filters through the semi-frosted walls around them, silhouettes moving just beyond the confines of the deserted office they’re standing in.

Charles complies, falling blessedly silent.

And then he presses the flat of his tongue against Sebastian’s warm fingers. The gesture is slow, deliberate, and there’s no mistaking the intent.

Sebastian snatches his hand back. His expression is unreadable in the half-darkness, but his breath comes out shaky.

Tentatively, experimentally, Sebastian slots his thumb inside Charles’s mouth. He can feel the blunt scrape of Charles’s teeth against his skin, the hot wetness of his tongue. He counts his breaths.

The press of Charles’s teeth into the soft part at the base of Sebastian’s thumb—and the brief flash of pain that follows—is enough to make him hiss quietly. It’s strange, not really good or bad, and it makes his cheeks heat.

Charles catches Sebastian’s wrist, pulling his hand away enough for him to examine it. Unbidden, his mind conjures up the phantom smell of motor oil, a dark line of grease sitting beneath Sebastian’s fingernails; the powdery texture of flour, the warmth and aroma of freshly baked bread.

In the dim light Charles can just about make out the faint impression of his teeth on the soft fleshy part of Sebastian’s thumb; he can feel the blood warmth of him, the steady drum of his pulse where he’s holding him by the wrist. There’s a pang in his chest, a tremor of panic brought on by the inescapable knowledge that this can’t go on forever.

Charles brings Sebastian’s hand to his lips and—very deliberately—starts kissing his fingertips, one by one. It’s unbearably tender.

“What are you doing?” Sebastian manages. He hates how breathless it sounds.

Charles keeps his thumb pressed to the soft inside of his wrist, mouth hot against the pads of his fingers, and doesn’t say anything, least of all sorry.

An alarming rush of fondness sweeps over him at the look on Charles’s face, the devotion he finds there; the fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks as he studies him, trying to gauge his reaction. It’s overwhelming, all-consuming, and he feels it all the way down to his knees, the way they threaten to give out. He doesn’t want to say anger would’ve been preferable, because he doesn’t mean that, not really, but he concedes that it would probably be easier to deal with than—whatever this is.

And yet when Charles releases his wrist and leans in to kiss him again, insistent but soft edged, he kisses back.

* * *

**Abu Dhabi**

“Seb,” Charles says. He’s wringing his hands. “Do you have a minute?”

It’s Friday afternoon, shortly before the first practise session. Sebastian looks up from where he’s been reviewing his track walk notes. Charles’s expression is unreadable, but his jittery movements make him think it’s urgent somehow. 

“Sure. What is it?” 

“There’s something—in my driver’s room. Could you…” He trails off, lifting a hand to his cheek, as if his fingertips can somehow rub the deepening blush away. 

The response is, predictably, maddeningly vague, like he’s expecting Sebastian to somehow pull the thoughts right out of his head. Charles offers a sheepish smile, dimples peeking out, and suddenly Sebastian has no choice but to acquiesce.

At first glance there’s nothing amiss. The room looks the way it usually does—tidy, even, by Charles’s usual standards. He’s about to open his mouth when Charles makes a beeline for the massage table. 

“I want to know what you think.” There’s a helmet cradled between his hands. 

Sebastian’s brow furrows. He’s not sure why Charles would require his approval on the matter. And then—

“It looks like mine.”

“It is. Inspired by yours, I mean. It’s for you,” Charles says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Sebastian keeps his eyes on the helmet. His mouth feels dry all of a sudden, like it’s full of cotton. 

“Please. Say something.”

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “It’s beautiful, Charles,” he murmurs. “May I?”

Sebastian gingerly takes the proffered helmet and holds it between his hands, examining the design. Up close he can see the similarities more clearly—the clean white base and the off-center flag that wraps around the top of the helmet. He notices that the logos—a defining feature of Charles’s standard design—are conspicuously missing.

He turns the helmet to get a closer look at the side. Impossibly, he’s greeted with a collage of images, a touching collection of treasured memories encased within the frame of number sixteen. His heart clenches. 

“Oh,” Sebastian says in a rush of breath. “Charles.”

“I did not—I could not find the words,” Charles starts. For all the words in the world, in every language that he speaks, nothing feels adequate; nothing comes close to conveying the way he feels about Sebastian. “But I had to show you. I needed you to know. Before you go.”

Sebastian looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, and he might as well be. There’s no trace of shame or regret on Charles’s face, no indication that Sebastian has misheard him or somehow misconstrued the intent behind his words. 

“I would choose you,” Charles murmurs. “If it was different. I would still choose you.”

He leans in, slowly, pressing his lips against Sebastian’s. It’s slow and achingly tender, and for a precious, fleeting moment, there is only this: the soft brush of Charles’s lips against his and the familiar warmth stirring in his chest. In another world, this might have been the greatest thing to win.

Sebastian rests his forehead against Charles’s, waiting for his breathing to even out. “I would choose you, too.” 

Charles’s answering smile is beatific. 


End file.
